A Most Novel Revenge (8 page)

I was halfway up the stairs when Milo caught up with me.

“What have you been doing all morning, my lovely?” he asked.

“Reading, among other things,” I answered, not breaking my stride. “How was your ride?”

“It was very nice. The property is extensive. And the horse they gave me was a fine animal.”

“That sounds lovely. Lunch is served in the dining room. You should eat something. If you continue substituting riding for meals, you'll waste away.”

“Nonsense. The country air is excellent for my constitution.”

“So it seems. You'd think you were a young man again.”

“Well, I'm not exactly past my prime, darling,” he protested.

“But perhaps not
quite
as young as you think.”

He laughed, catching my arm before I went up another step. I turned to look at him. He stood on the step below me, and our faces were nearly level.

“You don't object to my having gone riding, surely?”

“Certainly not,” I replied mildly. And I meant it. I didn't begrudge Lucinda Lyons a bit of fun. I only hoped that Milo's attentions would not give her the wrong impression. It would not do for a lonely and very pretty young woman to fall in love with my husband.

“I'd much rather ride with you, in any event,” he said. “Will you go out with me tomorrow?”

“If you like.”

“I would. You're a much better horsewoman than Miss Lyons. Besides, I like the way you look in your riding trousers.” He dropped a kiss on my lips then patted me most inappropriately to prod me up the stairs.

Before I could move, however, I heard the sound of voices. I realized at once that it was Isobel Van Allen and Desmond Roberts. They must have come from one of their rooms. We had stopped at the top of the stairway, and had not yet turned the corner into the corridor.

It was immediately apparent that the conversation was of a very personal nature, and it was too late to make our presence known without causing additional awkwardness.

“But I don't understand,” Mr. Roberts said. “Why must you be so secretive?”

“Oh, Desmond, don't be tiresome.”

“You always treat me as though I'm a child,” he told her in a sulky voice that did nothing to belie his accusation.

“I don't enjoy you when you're disagreeable, my pet,” she said lightly. “You know perfectly well that no one is going to read my book until I've sent it to my publisher. That includes you.”

I looked at Milo. He raised his brows.

“I don't see why you should treat me this way, after all that we have been through together. After all we mean to one another.”

“You know how much you mean to me, but that doesn't change anything.”

“It should,” he said. “It should change everything.”

When her next words came they had dropped all hint of the caressing tone she had used only moments before. “Listen to me,” she said sharply. “I am tired of your whining and your demands. Remember this: I took you out of nothing, made something of you. I owe you nothing.

“I will not have you, or anyone else, tell me what I will or will not do. Do you understand me?”

He must have indicated that he understood, for her next words held less venom.

“Don't look downcast, my sweet. You'll find out soon enough. Everyone will.”

“Yes, but please, Isobel. I … don't be angry with me. I adore you. You know I do.”

“I know,” she said soothingly. “Come back into my room, Desmond.”

He apparently obeyed, for I heard the door close and silence fell.

“‘Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,'” Milo quoted in a low voice.

“She's treating that boy rather cruelly,” I said.

“He's not a child. He knows what he's doing.”

“I don't know that he does,” I mused. It seemed to me that Desmond Roberts was desperately in love with a woman to whom he meant very little.

“It does seem the fight's gone out of him,” Milo admitted. “I would suspect he doesn't like being ‘her pet,' but she's got her claws in deep. Well, he's not the first. It's always been her specialty, you know, bending men to her will. I always found it rather repulsive.”

I could see now why Milo had never fallen sway to her charms. Even at a young age, he would not have wanted to be just another of her admirers, throwing his heart at her feet with reckless abandon. Passionate adoration wasn't in his nature. He was much too used to being the center of attention to fall into orbit around someone else's star.

As we walked toward our rooms, I couldn't rid myself of an uneasy feeling. Something about the exchange we had overheard was bothering me, and I realized suddenly what it was. Desmond Roberts was besotted with Isobel Van Allen, but there had been more than love in his voice. There had been anger and something more: desperation.

Both emotions could prove dangerous.

 

7

I DRESSED FOR
dinner feeling very much as though I was attending an execution rather than an evening meal at a country estate.

I didn't know what to make of Isobel Van Allen or of the conversation I had overheard between her and Mr. Roberts. Why should she want to keep her book a secret from her secretary? Granted, he was not operating solely in a professional capacity where she was concerned, but it seemed she should have wanted to confide in him if no one else.

She had told me it was not always possible to follow the heart. What had she meant? Why had she come back seven years later to gather the members of that ill-fated party together?

I tried and failed to think of what her motive might be. Though it was perfectly apparent she didn't care what others thought of her, I didn't think that she was motivated by malice alone. If it had been only that, she could have come back long ago. Or she might have written the book from the comforts of her home in Kenya with the handsome Mr. Roberts to type for her. She might have whipped up a scandal from half a world away if that had been her inclination.

No, there was some other reason she had chosen to return to Lyonsgate, to make this very public announcement. For some reason she had wanted to be back at the scene of the tragedy and to face the participants. Was it possible that she herself was searching for answers?

Perhaps tonight we would find out.

“You look positively downcast, darling,” Milo observed as he came into my room tying his necktie. “What's troubling you?”

“I don't know,” I said. “There's something wrong in all of this, and I can't quite decide what it is. It's just so very odd that Reggie Lyons should have called everyone here. Why should they all be willing to come? If I had been here, I don't think I could be induced to set foot on the spot again.”

Milo shrugged. “It was unfortunate, yes, but there is no reason why everyone should wish to avoid Lyonsgate forever. After all, I'd wager that there isn't a country house in the whole of England that hasn't been touched by death. Heaven knows how many people have died at Thornecrest.”

It was not a comforting thought, and I hoped it would not occur to me the next time we visited our country house.

“In any event,” he went on, “it's safe to assume most of the gentlemen were in the war, and half the women lost someone to it. It's not as though they would be strangers to death.”

“You're right,” I said, “which only proves my point. There's something else that is going on here. If it was as simple as a dreadful accident, it wouldn't have affected everyone so deeply.”

“Why don't you ask your cousin?”

“I have. She doesn't really know much about it. She was not close to any of them, you know. She had only recently been invited into their circle. I don't think she was aware of everything that was happening at the time.”

“It's really none of our concern,” Milo said. He was, as usual, supremely uninterested in anything that did not affect him directly. “Let them go on clawing at each other. At least the wine is good.”

“Milo, I do wish you would be serious.”

“I am being serious, darling. But you become much too invested in people who are all perfect strangers to us. In fact, I don't see why you should be concerned with it at all.”

“But I…”

“Yes, darling, I know,” he said. “You can't bear to keep your pretty little nose out of things that do not concern you.”

I frowned. “It does concern me, in a way. It concerns Laurel, and she's not only my cousin but my dearest friend.”

“But you've just said that Laurel wasn't deeply involved in any of this.”

“It doesn't matter. She was still affected by it. Another book has the potential to do a great deal of damage.”

“Perhaps it will not be as bad as you imagine,” he said.

I hoped he was right. “I'm very cross with Miss Van Allen. There's no reason that she should make everyone miserable.”

“Well, let us see what kind of scene she creates at dinner tonight, shall we?”

I sighed. “I suppose we have no choice.”

*   *   *

I COULD NOT
help but feel we were in for a repeat of last night's performance as we took our seats in the dining room. With the exception of the additional two guests, Freida and Phillip Collins, everything was just as it had been the evening before.

I was uncertain how things would proceed after the volatile way in which dinner had ended last night. It appeared, however, that Reggie Lyons intended to make good his promise that things would not get out of hand. He nodded stiffly to Isobel when she came into the dining room and she gave him a bright smile in return. It seemed that they intended to maintain at least the pretense of civility.

We were all very aware, however, that there was more to come. It was only a matter of time until Isobel made another one of her announcements.

I looked around at my fellow guests. Though they were doing their best to go on as though nothing was amiss, I could sense the tension in the air. Freida Collins seemed particularly ill at ease, and I wondered if it was because, not having been present last night, she was unsure of what to expect. Or, perhaps, she had been apprised of last night's events and that was why she was uneasy. Her husband wore that same expression of vague contempt that had been on his face since his arrival. Whatever he was feeling, he did not intend for others to know it.

I knew Isobel was enjoying holding the group in thrall, keeping them all on the edge of their seats, wondering what she would reveal. The thought had occurred to me, of course, that there must be other secrets swirling beneath the surface. If not, why would they all be so concerned?

The time came after the last of the dessert plates had been cleared away. I thought it was probably more due to the fact that Isobel was enjoying making her audience wait rather than that she had decided to allow them to enjoy their dinner in peace.

“I realize it must have come as a shock to all of you, the way I made my announcement at dinner last night,” she began. “I'm afraid the emotion of the moment caught up with me. I did not intend to make such a scene.”

None of us were fooled by her performance. She was clearly reveling in the tension that hung in the air, on the way all of us were hanging on her every word.

“I would have liked nothing more than to remain in Kenya for the rest of my days, but my conscience would not allow me to do so.”

I could practically feel Milo rolling his eyes from across the room.

“Conscience?” Beatrice scoffed. “Since when have you ever had a conscience, Isobel?”

Isobel ignored this question and went on in the same even tone.

“It isn't easy for me to say this, believe me. But the time has come that I speak openly. The truth of the matter is that I now believe that Bradford Glenn was innocent.”

This announcement was greeted without much surprise.

“How kind of you to say so, after he killed himself because of you,” Beatrice said bitterly.

Isobel continued to carry on as though she hadn't heard Beatrice. “I came to believe in his innocence when I heard of his suicide note. He spoke not of guilt, but of love. He and Edwin hated one another, perhaps, but it wasn't Bradford that caused Edwin's death that night.”

“We knew all along it was an unfortunate accident,” Reggie Lyons said. Unlike his sister, his tone held no bitterness. If I had to name the emotion, I might have thought it relief.

“That's not at all what I mean, Reggie,” she said.

“What do you mean, Miss Van Allen?” It was Lindy Lyons who asked the question. She was trying, I thought, to hide the eagerness in her tone.

Isobel glanced at her, and then turned to Gareth Winters. “You asked me last night why any of you would want to help me.”

He watched her from across the table, his face unreadable.

“It's because I think one of you knows the truth. I want you to tell me.”

“The truth?” Beatrice spat out. “What do you mean? Since when have you ever been concerned with the truth?”

“My conclusion that Bradford killed Edwin was based on the evidence. They hated one another and had fought earlier that night and were left alone when the rest of us came back to the house. Edwin was unconscious when we left that summerhouse and dead in the snow the next morning. How did he get there?”

“He woke up,” Freida said. “Woke up and tried to get to the house.”

Freida was trembling. I could see it from where I sat. Her husband, however, might have been made of stone. His face was hard and expressionless. Only his eyes burned darkly as he watched Isobel.

“I don't think he did,” Isobel said. “You see, in addition to his suicide note, Bradford wrote me a letter.”

There was a stunned silence. I glanced around the table. Everyone was watching Isobel, save for Mr. Winters. He was looking down at his plate.